Chapter Three

The Rev. Cyrus Evander Milton’s church changed locations on a weekly basis. Some weeks, it was in a large circus tent, with the congregation spilling out into the surrounding fields, eager to be close to him and hear his words. Other weeks he’d be in a convention center, or a host church, or most anywhere else that had enough space for the crowds who came to his revivals.

In certain circles, Reverend Milton was bigger than any rock star. And, honestly, he thought of his revivals more as performances than religious ceremonies. He strutted across the stage with as much swagger as Mick Jagger. His brown suits were tailored perfectly, his shoes shined as brightly as the stage lights and his hair was slicked back with a generous helping of Brylcreem. He had a killer sound system, donated by a group of faithful businessmen. He had a staggering light system operated by one of the best lighting men in the southern United States. The light and sound crew got paid. He had an amazing band, all faithful volunteers doing their part for God, who followed his cues on stage without fail. The ushers, who circulated the collection plates endlessly at every revival meeting, were all local volunteers.

He had been in the business long enough to learn to read the congregation. If they weren’t excited enough, or if the donations seemed to be slowing down, he’d start preaching hellfire in a fast patter, with a pause between each phrase.

“Those who reject God, those who are wicked and live in sin will be cast aside! They will be cast into the lake of fire, where there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth, and there will be no comfort for them! There will be no water to quench their thirst, and they shall suffer in the absence of the Lord!”

When the crowd was good and riled up, he’d tell them about the Glory of God, about being saved by Jesus Christ, and about the rewards awaiting each of the faithful in heaven. Once the congregation were really rocking and rolling, he’d even speak in tongues. Glossolalia had been one of the hardest tricks to learn. When he’d first started doing revivals, he’d utter a quick “tuk-uh tuk-uh” now and then, but now he really got into it and would go off on long, nonsense rants.

“And you will find the Glory of Heaven! Hooba TukTuk Wheeeee-Pong Dook Spang! Yes! I can feel that the Lord is with us tonight-uh!” he’d say. The crowd ate it up.

Reverend Milton tried to avoid adding an “-uh” at the end of sentences, but sometimes he couldn’t resist, as in “But if you reject the Lord Jesus Christ-uh, you will surely be damned-uh!”

It never failed to amaze the Reverend Milton how much the congregation went along with the whole act. It was better than going to The Rocky Horror Picture Show, as far as he was concerned. The first time he saw one of the congregation members start speaking in tongues, he nearly lost his shit and started laughing. Someone who needed attention would start speaking in tongues, and a large group of the faithful would crowd around them, making a big show of embracing them and holding them up. Frequently the one speaking in tongues would collapse to the floor. There was always an usher nearby with a white towel to protect the modesty of any ladies who fainted.

The good Reverend, frankly, liked his job a lot. He had fun doing it. It felt like he and the crowd were all a part of a big joke, one that no one would admit to but played their part in it with relish.

And then there was the money. Huge piles of sweet, tax-free cash money. He had four paid staff members: his secretary, his accountant, the sound man and the light man. He brought in $20,000 on a bad night, and on a night when the crowd caught the spirit, and their wallets started out full, the sky was the limit. Now and then he’d spread the night’s take out on his bed in the hotel and marvel at the scope of his con. He could make more than an average person’s annual salary in one weekend. His expenses were nearly always covered by the local church who had invited him to run a revival in their town, which meant every performance was almost pure profit.

It was a good gig.

And then there were the fringe benefits. He ate home-cooked meals from members of the congregation. People leapt at the opportunity to take care of any errand for him. And then there were the women; whatever trouble he’d had scoring in his confirmation class was replaced by trying to get someone’s attractive daughter to go home after the third romp of the evening.

He’d never had better sex than the sex he had with 19 year old girls full of the spirit of the Lord after a revival. Passion is passion, and they’d come back to his dressing room after he was done preaching and nearly tear his clothes off in their fervor. The Catholic girls might have put out, but these girls wanted to fuck for Jesus. Afterwards, he would usher them gently towards their home, heaping compliments and blessings on them.

Then he’d blow town. The next town would be more of the same.

At the present time, Reverend Cyrus Evander Milton was worth four million, eight hundred sixty seven thousand dollars, plus change. Not that he was counting. He would generally tour the southern states for three or four months during the winter, setting up in town for a weekend before rolling on to the next. He’d tour just long enough to earn enough money for the next year.

The rest of the year, he lived in a modest house in a quiet neighborhood in Minneapolis. His neighbors knew him as Joe Anderson, a quiet but pleasant man who would happily loan his tools and regularly invited them over for beer and hamburgers during the summer. No one in Minnesota knew about his career as a preacher, and none of the people he preached to knew about his life in Minnesota. Even his staff, apart from his secretary, were unaware of his other life.

Cyrus liked that just fine.

At his house in Minnesota, his hair was loose and shaggy. He wore old jeans, which were frequently greasy, flannel shirts when it was cold, t-shirts when it was warm, and his shoes were far from new.

When he wasn’t preaching fire and brimstone he liked working on his car, a purple 1967 Dodge Challenger, and riding his motorcycle when the weather wasn’t too cold. His motorcycle was a newer Triumph Scrambler, and he’d logged many miles every summer riding it around the northern half of the United States. He’d gotten his first motorcycle, a 1973 CL350, after meeting a couple of interesting guys in a bar. The same guys who’d given him the idea to start preaching, in fact. From what he’d gathered at the time, the pair spent a good deal of their time traveling on motorcycles, saying they were the only modern vehicles fit for gods. Whatever that meant. Riding sure sounded like fun though, so he hustled up some cash, bought the little Honda, and had been riding as much as he could ever since.

After several years, he had to agree with – what had their names been? – the two guys in the bar: motorcycles were good enough for God.

Cyrus – Joe Anderson - liked his small house just fine. There was plenty of room for him, and he had space when he had guests over. His furniture was nice, but simple. He had a decent stereo, a fairly nice TV that he only really used to watch movies and sports, and photos of old friends and trips he had taken decorated the walls. He had guests fairly frequently. His neighbors, Thomas and Judy, came over every Sunday night for dinner and a card game. Thomas and Judy were a retired couple, and didn’t have much money. Thomas’s pension just covered their monthly expenses and staples, but they didn’t have much left over after the bills were paid, and their kids rarely visited.

They were cantankerous in a charming way, and Cyrus liked having them over. It felt to him like having dinner with his grandparents, who had passed away a long time ago. He listene, amused, as Thomas and Judy would argue about minor details in their stories, such as whether the house had been on 1667 or 1668 Hennepin Avenue. After each visit, Cyrus always wrapped up the left over food and insisted that they take it with them at the end of the night.

He never let on, but he’d always made sure to make way too much food, far more than the three of them could possibly eat. Thomas and Judy also never let on that they knew he’d made too much food every time, and would refuse his offer, in a good natured way, once or twice before accepting the left overs. After a few days Judy would drop by his house to drop off the clean dishes.

His other neighbors were fine folks, as far as Cyrus was concerned, and they kept their noses out of his business. He really couldn’t ask for much more. It was good.

As much as he enjoyed traveling his revival circuit, hustling the crowds for bigger and bigger payouts, he preferred his life as Joe Anderson far more. It was simple, and he was happy.

Of course, it’s easy to be simple and happy when one has four million eight hundred sixty seven thousand dollars, plus change, waiting in the bank in case one needs something. Cyrus as Joe was careful to leave the flashy stuff to Cyrus as Reverend Milton. No one even suspected quiet Joe Anderson was one of the most successful revival preachers in the southern United States. And Joe liked that especially well.